


Legs Made For Tights

by hidley



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Light-Hearted, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:10:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidley/pseuds/hidley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although Simmons finds it impossible to talk to girls, he no longer has any problems copying their dress, especially since he found out how good his legs looked in a skirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legs Made For Tights

**Author's Note:**

> Light hearted cross-dressing!Simmons, plus a look into some of the platoons of the New Republic.

Simmons stumbled back into his room after training, letting the door slam closed behind him.

Slumping against it for a moment, he let out a long sigh. He'd made no progress what so ever in terms of communicating with his platoon in any other way other than barking orders at them. Every time he tried to start saying something even remotely friendly to either of them, his throat closed up and left him standing like an idiot as they continued to carry out their training exercises, oblivious to his growing frustration.

More than once they tried to cox him into conversation, chatting idly about the other platoons and potential routines they could try out, but Simmons found it impossible to reply to them with anything more than a grunt or even a nod. For weeks it had gone on, with his girls refusing to back down and him refusing to loosen up. It had become a weird kind of system for them all, but it wasn't one Simmons was in any way happy with. How on earth could he train these guys if he couldn't even speak to them?

Feeling defeated, he pushed himself off the door and over to his bunk. He clicked his helmet off and undid the straps on his armoured chest plate, setting them both down on the floor before falling face first onto his mattress, groaning angrily into his hard pillow. He didn't understand it. Why was this even a problem? Despite whatever Grif said of him, he had handled himself fairly well in high school and college. He couldn't think of any times where he had this magnitude of issue in regards to girls.

Well. It was true that any interactions he had had with the opposite sex tended to be quite professional, through lab partnerships or project buddies and the like. He very rarely had a conversation with a girl that wasn't in some round-about way related to work or something formal like that.

Huh. He supposed he should have really done something about that. Practised a bit more.

But come on. How was he to know how many girls he'd end up meeting in the army? He'd signed up to the Red Team specifically because it was all male. He never expected to have to be put in the situation where he'd have to communicate directly with girls again, let alone be put in charge of _training_ two of them.

It's then when he begins to realise that perhaps he may have been actively avoiding female company without really being aware of it. Though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

He groaned again, turning over onto his side to stare down at the ground across the room. He felt his eyebrows raise as he spied his duffel bag underneath the table on the other side of the room.

They didn't get a chance to save much when they'd crashed here, but Simmons had managed to salvage at least some of their stuff from the wreckage. Including his own bag of... personal belongings.

He lay, staring at it for a few minutes, deliberating, before getting up again, locking the door and grabbing it. He put it on his bunk, unzipping the first layer and digging around. His hands closed around a smaller bag within it and he opened it up, pulling out a skirt and a pair of worn tights.

Holding up the tights, Simmons frowned as he saw they were riddled with ladders and holes. He knew they still fit after all these years but the crash had apparently damaged them further, forcing him to entertain the possibility that there may be a time where he'd have to wear the skirt without them. Despite the fact that he would never dress like this in front of anyone, the thought of wearing the short skirt without the protection of tights made him blush and feel weirdly self conscious.

Simmons shook it off, and slipped off his lower armour, before carefully pulling the tights up his legs. His frown returned as he saw that his leg hair had apparently grown out to the point where it was coming through the fabric, sticking out like bunches of tiny antenna. He pulled them off again and went into the bathroom, his bare feet padding against the cold floor. The bathroom was small, consisting only of a sink, a toilet and what Simmons assumed was meant to be a shower, though it really was just a pipe sticking out from the wall in the corner.

He picked up his electric razor from the side of the sink and perched a leg up on the side of the toiler, leaning himself against the wall. He hadn't shaved in months, and hoped fleetingly that he wouldn't have to take some scissors to it as he carefully shaved his leg hair down to a more reasonable thickness. He normally would have made sure they were as smooth as possible, but for the purposes of saving time, he stopped as soon as he was satisfied they wouldn't poke out of the fabric again.

Collecting the hair and flushing it quickly, he returned to his bunk to try putting the tights on again, this time pleased as they slipped on with no resistance. He pulled them up fully, adjusting them so the elastic fit underneath his upper under armour.

Simmons had always been privately proud of his long legs. During many moments of uncertainty whilst dressing up in his more feminine clothing, he would stand and admire how good they looked in the soft blue tights, examining them from different angles. Over time, his self consciousness ebbed away, until he could easily do things like this and not feel embarrassed. He was on his own after all. Who was going to know?

He picked the skirt up from the floor and unfolded it, wrapping it around his waist and closing the clasps. The only mirror in the room was small and fixed on the wall by the door, but from a distance Simmons could see the whole of the bottom of his body, and enjoyed watching himself walk over, his skirt swaying around his thighs, long legs straight and dainty. His tall, lanky appearance was a source of discomfort when he was in armour, something that only served to remind him of his weakness. He had no muscle definition. No matter how hard he worked, he always figured his body just wasn't made for strength. But here, he was using his body for something else, something that it suited incredibly well.

It was only through wearing clothes like this that his slim hips and soft thighs became parts of himself that he adored, and it was only in this light that he truly loved his own body.

Simmons smiled to himself, moving his hips around so the fabric of the skirt twirled back and forth, his hands stroking the material. Who cared that these legs weren't made for heavy duty? They sure as hell rocked a mini skirt.

After a while, he reluctantly turned away from the mirror. He didn't have training duty for another couple of hours, and he had some log journals to catch up on. Grif wouldn't be back from patrols until after supper, so he had no reason to get changed.

A warm flush rose up in Simmons' stomach. He could keep this on for a while longer.

As he walked back over to his bunk to pack away his duffle again, he heard a loud bang just outside his door. Head whipping round, Simmons' heart jumped as the metal swung open, revealing the figures of Grif and one of his boys, Matthews.

Grif looked pleased, patting the boy on the back, who was knelt down on the floor, having clearly just disabled the lock system on the door.

'You know, Simmons,' Grif sighed as he glanced up at his team mate. 'This is my bunk too, you can't-'

Simmons stood, frozen in fear and half leant down over his bag, as he watched Grif's eyes widen from where he was stood under the door frame. There was a beat of dead silence, before Matthews leapt up, stammering out apologies for intruding and swiftly fleeing back down the hall. Grif, on the other hand, stood there for a moment longer and Simmons couldn't breathe from fear at the expression on the man's face, an expression that he could barely read. He didn't think he'd never seen Grif look so taken aback in his entire life, and so he could hardly believe it when the orange soldier eventually just kind of coughed and blushed scarlet, eyes diverting away from Simmons but then back again, as if he was struggling not to look.

Simmons tried to work out the reason behind that before Grif blurted out an apology, backing away back out of the room, eyes still darting around everywhere, though somehow always falling back down to Simmons' legs. Simmons still couldn't bring himself to even move as he watched Grif close the door quickly, leaving him in quiet and darkness once again.

It took a good few seconds for the situation to sink in, and when it did Simmons fell to his knees, his head in his hands, groaning in absolute mortification.

* * *

 

Hours later, Simmons left and went out to meet his platoon for their afternoon drills, having spent the last ninety minutes talking himself in and out of ever showing his face around base ever again.

As he walked down to his training ground, he deliberately ignored every single person he came across, his helmet hiding his sheepish expression, and tried to walk with purpose. It was hard, to say the least.

When he got closer to the grounds, he saw his two platoon members, Privates Ford and Jenkins, sitting on top of a water drum, chatting. As he approached, they spotted him, and clambered down to the ground, grabbing their guns and saluting.

'Captain Simmons, Sir.'

He nodded at them, and they relaxed, hands falling down to clasp their guns firmly against their chests. Their backs were straight and their helmets shining. He really wished he could force his awkwardness aside for two seconds, just so he could express his appreciation to them both. It had only been a few weeks and already Simmons knew that he couldn't of asked for a better pair of soldiers.

'This afternoons going to be a little different from what we normally do,' Simmons began, keeping his voice even and authoritative, even though he didn't feel even remotely confident enough to do so. 'Instead of distance, we're going to work on speed. Whoever out of the two of you manages to do three laps of the whole base in the quickest time, receives not only my approval, but first choice of the new haul of weaponry coming in tomorrow.'

The girls glanced at each other, and Simmons could see them grin behind their visors.

'I've set up checkpoints all around the base. You have to pass all these checkpoints three times if you want to win. I know what you two are like. No cheating.'

His words induced a snort from one of them, but he didn't comment.

Checking the timer on his wrist, he gestured towards them.

'Ready? Three laps. Your time starts...now.'

* * *

 

Private Jenkins won, in the end, much to Simmons' surprised pleasure. Out of the two of them, she had seemed to be the least willing to run distance races, partly due to laziness and partly, she claimed, because of her short legs. Simmons had heard her complain many times to Private Ford about the unfair advantage she had, but it seemed today she was able to prove her worth.

As he made his way back to the bunker, Simmons realised he had almost completely forgotten about his encounter with Grif and Matthews. No doubt Grif would have told his entire platoon, and most probably all the other platoons about it. He never could resist making Simmons' life a living fucking hell.

Letting himself into his shared room, Simmons glanced around nervously, but Grif was no where to be seen, and so he let himself relax, pulling off his helmet and sitting himself down on his mattress, rubbing his temples.

He had to think of a way he was going to explain this. The others, he didn't particularly need to worry about. He lived with an almost constant hot flush of mortification anyway, what would it matter if it got a thousand times worse? He could live with that. Sort of.

Sighing, he moved his fingers up to his eyes, pressing down into them, hard. What the hell was he going to do?

A knock at the door made him jump, pulling him out of his fog of worry. He didn't answer it at first, but after another knock sounded a couple of moments later it was accompanied with a voice.

'Captain Simmons? Sir, are you in there?'

Private Jenkins.

Wiping a face over his face, Simmons stood, composing himself before striding over to the door and pulling it open. The face of not only Jenkins, but Ford too, smiled hesitantly back at him.

Simmons swallowed. This wasn't going to go well. 'Can I help you two?'

They glanced at one another, and Simmons noted the hint of nervousness in their expressions.

'Erm, we apologise, Sir, but can we come in?'

Simmons hesitated, debating the appropriateness of the situation, before allowing it, moving aside to let them in, leaving the door slightly ajar.

If there was ever a use for the word 'cornered', Simmons thought, now would be a perfect time to utilise it.

His two Privates stood in the middle of the room, seemingly waiting for the other one to start talking.

Eventually, Ford sighed and met her Captain's expectant gaze. 'We've been under your command a while now, Sir,' she began. 'And in that time Jenkins and I both feel we know you rather well, despite our lack of direct interaction.'

She smirked, and Simmons recognised the light tease and smiled faintly. 'One thing in particular that we think we understand, Sir, is the importance that you place in order, and in privacy.'

A surge of anxiety rose up in him as he slowly began to realise where this was going. He didn't think that he had let anything show in his expression, but he must have less control over himself than he thought, as Ford's face immediately dropped and she held her hands up in apology.

'I don't mean anything by it, Sir. But after Matthews was running his mouth about you earlier, I- We thought perhaps we could set a few things straight.'

'And what things are you referring?' Simmons asked, conscious of the slight edge in his voice but making no effort to conceal it.

'You looking hot as hell in tights,' Jenkins piped up.

Simmons' smile dropped.

'Sarah!' Ford hissed, half annoyed, half amused.

'What? That's what everyone was going on about wasn't it?' Jenkins replied, shrugging. 'Figured he should know.'

'Stress on the word private, idiot! He most probably didn't want Matthews gushing all over him. Who the hell would?'

'Yeah, well at least now we can get his permission to deal with it! It was gunna take more than you beating round the bush to get him to- Sir?' The two soldiers turned back to their Captain, who hadn't said anything throughout their argument.

Simmons stared at them both, a blush fixed firmly on his cheeks. He swallowed, coughing awkwardly as the two girls grinned at him, enjoying watching their commander slowly process the information he'd been given. It _was_ rather valuable, after all.

'So,' the maroon soldier said weakly. 'You're saying that...the rest of the base don't think I'm...You know.' He gestured vaguely at himself. 'You know..'

Ford and Jenkins looked at each other briefly in confusion before almost simultaneously catching on and shaking their heads at their Captain.

'No,' Jenkins said. 'It's not something particularly uncommon here. And plus, this isn't the twenty four hundreds. People aren't bigoted any more. Well, about this anyway.'

'Really?' Simmons asked hesitantly.

'Sure, all you really have to worry about is crowd control. Matthews wasn't exactly short on the details. Turns out he took a pretty good look.' Ford smirked. 'I hear he's asked Captain Grif to transfer to this platoon several times already.'

Flushing again, Simmons tried not to let his shock show, and instead nodded curtly, forcing a smile on his face. 'I'll keep an eye out,' he said. 'Thankyou.'

'It's no problem, Sir,' Jenkins grinned as her and Ford headed for the door. 'We just thought you'd want to know. Oh, and Sir?'

'Er, yes?'

'Let us know if you need a pair of heels to go with that skirt.' Jenkins winked at him, hanging on the door frame. 'Though by the sounds of it your legs rock it just fine on their own.'

With that, she closed the door, leaving Simmons standing in complete shock, blush burning his skin from his neck to his cheeks. The flippancy in which they just discussed his most private parts of himself completely threw him off base. He had long made peace with the fact that there was nothing wrong with him for occasionally dressing in more... feminine clothing, but whether or not he thought others would except it was something entirely different.

Apparently, he needn’t have worried at all. Though of course he still did.

And of course there was still the issue of Grif. An army of liberal soldiers from another planet was one thing, but the opinion of his team-mate unfortunately meant infinitely more to him than those of a few hundred strangers. And somehow he thought his hobby may not sit so well with someone like Grif.

Simmons glanced at the digital clock above the door. He would have to talk to the other man about it a some point, and right about now was when they started serving up supper. And besides, he could use a little bonding time with his platoon now that they seem to...share common ground.

He glanced at his bunk, debating whether or not to wear his helmet, but decided against it, and headed out into the hall, swiping his door locked with his card key.

* * *

 

The mess hall was heaving.

Ravenous soldiers darted this way and that with bowls of soup and mouthfuls of bread. Simmons tried not to wrinkle his nose at the sight, and glanced around, seeking out his two Privates. They were seated by themselves at the end of the table closest to him, and so he walked over and stood over them both, smiling as they both greeted him cheerily.

'This place taken?'

'Not for you, Sir! Help yourself.'

Simmons sat, and the two girls went back to their conversation, including Simmons in their discussion of the new weaponry coming in.

'You _must_ know a little bit about what's in the haul!' Jenkins whined. 'Please, _please_ can you tell us? Are there rocket launchers? Rifles that actually have accurate scopes?'

Simmons chuckled. 'I really have no idea. Felix brings in this stuff and then dumps it all in the armoury. It has to be sorted into what's in working order before its handed out.'

'Awh, crap.'

'Don't worry, a promise is a promise. You'll get first pick,' Simmons said to her.

'Awh, yeah!' Jenkins deviated, excitedly.

Simmons turned to Ford, who was watching her friend with fond amusement.

'And I'll make sure you get second, Private Ford.'

Her gaze snapped to his and her eyes widened. 'Really? Oh, thankyou, Sir!'

With another laugh, Simmons grinned at her. 'You didn't think I'd let the other platoons get their hands on them before you ,did you? You guys are this army's best bet.'

The two Privates beamed at him, and continued talking excitedly to each other about what weapons they were going to pick.

Simmons glanced around the room briefly, seeking out the tale tale orange striped armour of Grif's platoon, but they were no where to be seen.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash from somewhere in the direction of the kitchen, and every one in the room fell silent and turned to look. Seconds later, the entire room was roaring with laughter as Matthews and another soldier came sprinting out of the kitchen, arms full of assorted foods and cans of soup. Right on their heels was Grif, helmet still on and running faster than Simmons had ever seen, shouting at them to 'keep running! Don't let them catch you!'.

The identity of 'Them' became quickly apparent as the Cook, a butch, tall man with a pan in his hand came shooting out in their pursuit, shouting out for someone to stop them.

'Don't stop, boys!' Grif shouted. 'I'll hold him off!'

Much to Simmons' surprise, the orange Captain skidded to a halt in the centre of the room, having grabbed the fork of a girl sitting on the table next to him, and holding it aloft like a weapon. The girl in question was laughing so hard she was doubled over, much like the rest of the room. The antics of Captain Grif's platoon were legendary, and usually served rather well as a break from training, and reminders of the impending war, something that seemed to contrast rather darkly with the small war going on between Grif and the base Cook, who were battling it out in the middle of the floor.

Grif kept his arms up, feinting this way and that as the other man tried to grab him, and occasionally jabbed forward with the sharp end of the fork. If anything else his sudden agility was rather surprising, seeing as he barely did any actual training himself. However, Simmons had noticed that in the weeks that they had been assigned these platoons, Grif seemed to find more fun in joining in with his men in their ridiculous retrieval missions then to just stand by and watch.

Eventually, the Cook got the upper hand and managed to floor Grif, who cried out above the laughter to his men.

'Save yourselves! Protect the cargo! I died as I lived!'

He then proceeded to 'die' in the most dramatic way possible before just laying on the floor, the Cook left standing above him, shaking his head in amusement.

The disturbance from such a performance eventually died back down to a loud hum, and Simmons saw as Grif left, and came back shortly with his two young soldiers, all their helmets now discarded and sat them down at a table to eat, patting them both on the back. Simmons shook his head, smiling to himself. Some things never changed.

He was still looking in their direction when Grif raised his head, and Simmons' heart leapt as their eyes met. He swallowed nervously, but despite the fact that he wanted to drop his gaze and run as far as fuck away as possible, he didn't and just cocked an eyebrow at him from across the room, silently expressing his disapproval.

He watched as Grif kind of half grinned at him and began to walk over. The sight made Simmons suddenly panic. Meeting his friends gaze across a crowded room and talking with him after what had happened were two very different things, and there was still a small part of him that was certain that this wasn't going to go well.

Either way, Grif made his way through the hall, and came to a stand still in front of the maroon soldier.

'Nice training exercises there, asshole'

'Eh, what can I say,' Grif grinned. 'Not every infiltration can be successful. They usually get out without being spotted.'

'Maybe it was something to do with the fact that you were there with them,' Simmons retorted.

'Nah, I'm their Master. Their Commander. Their Senpai. I'm ten times better than them at this gig.'

'Sure you are.' Grif shrugged at him, still grinning, before gesturing outside. 'Hey, can I speak to you in private?'

Well, now was as good a time as any.

'Sure.'

Simmons let the other soldier go first, standing up from his table. He glanced at his two platoon members, and they grinned at him, Ford giving him a wink and Jenkins a thumbs up. He shot them a grateful smile and followed Grif out of the mess hall.

The noise from the hall died down the further they walked from it. Neither of them spoke again whilst they trek back over their training bases and towards the Captains bunkers. The sun on their heads made Simmons wish briefly that he was wearing his helmet. As the air got quieter and quieter, Simmons became aware of his anxiety settling more firmly in his stomach, and coughed lightly to try and relieve it. Unfortunately, it did nothing but make the silence between them suddenly awkward, and Simmons cursed himself as they finally reached their bunker, painted maroon and orange by Grif's request.

By the time they reached their room, Simmons' head was a mess. He had somehow in the time between then and thirty seconds previously convinced himself that Grif was going to disown him from whatever weird friendship they had and ask for him to stay away from him for the rest of their time here. And since he was so certain, Simmons was confused as to why Grif was taking them so far away from everyone else to have a talk that was just going to consist of a couple of words, an awkward pat on the back and a parting of ways.

He tried to tell himself to calm down, but it didn't exactly help.

Grif swiped his card on the door, unaware of Simmons' bemusement at the fact that he still had it, and let them into their room. Once inside, Simmons made a beeline straight for his bunk and sat himself down on it, watching as Grif shut the door behind them, and then did the same.

The uncomfortable silence Simmons expected was easily broken as Grif began talking almost immediately.

'Right,' he said, his eyes surveying the ground. 'First off. Matthews is the fucking tattle tale who grassed to the whole god-damn army, not me. Second, he has already paid for it. He won't be walking straight for a week with the laps I set him.'

'Okay?' Simmons replied uncertainly, not really sure what Grif was getting at, but listening anyway.

'Thirdly, no one cares. Seriously. Apparently cross-dressing is actually a pretty common thing round here and so you don't have to feel weird about it.'

Trying not to visibly squirm under Grif's sudden blunt approach to the conversation, Simmons nodded. 'Yeah, I know. Ford and Jenkins told me.'

Grif looked up from where he had been watching his feet, a slow grin slipping onto his face. 'You talked to your girls?'

'I guess so,' Simmons said, his lips twitching into a proud smile. 'Seems we have more in common than I thought.'

Grif chuckled, leaning back a bit. 'That's great dude, really. Training the bastards is a lot easier when you can actually communicate with 'em.'

Simmons hummed in agreement.

Another silence fell, though it was a lot lighter than it had been. Simmons tried not to be too obvious in his avoidance of Grif's gaze, but it was difficult since the other man seemed determined to burn holes into the top of his head.

'And er- Lastly,' Grif eventually continued, making Simmons finally raise his head, meeting his eyes full on. 'I don't have an issue with it. Like, at all. I know we had this whole thing back in the canyon where we would act all straight up and judgemental or whatever, but this place? Well, it's kinda brought us back into the real world. And in the real world, you can do whatever you like. And I'm certainly not going to think of you any differently for it.'

Simmons blushed again, and nodded, taking a second to be thoroughly glad that he had a talk with his platoon before this, so at least he was somewhat composed and not gabbling like an idiot like he was with them. It probably saved him a lot of embarrassment. 'Well, thanks, Grif. I really appreciate it.'

Grif grinned again, standing up. 'No problem, dude. You don't judge me eating Oreo muffins in bed at four in the morning. I'm not gunna judge you for wearing a skirt.'

Simmons huffed a laugh, grimacing. 'I wouldn't stay that I don't judge you for that. It's pretty fucking disgusting.'

'It's who I am, Simmons,' Grif replies, his voice mockingly heartfelt. 'And I don't care what you say, you can't change that.'

'Fuck off.'

'Hey, you're the dude who likes wearing tights-Ow!'

Simmons smirked, watching smugly as Grif rubbed in his head where the duffel bag had hit him. 'I didn't hear Matthews complaining about my tights.'

'Yeah well,' Grif's expression turned sour. 'Little prick doesn't know when to keep his dick in his pants. Although...'

Grif looked up at him, teeth flashing in a wide grin.

'I can't say I blame him. You really do look fucking hot in a skirt.'


End file.
